


The Warrant Is Tall

by darthjamtart



Category: Killjoys (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2016-12-17
Packaged: 2018-09-09 05:46:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8878306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darthjamtart/pseuds/darthjamtart
Summary: Dutch runs a coffee shop with some familiar clientele.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [37Cats](https://archiveofourown.org/users/37Cats/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide, 37Cats!

It’s still dark outside when Dutch opens the cafe, a thin sheen of ice glimmering under the streetlamps. She flips the lights and turns on the brewer, and has just started moving the chairs into place when something red catches her eye. Khlyen’s been in her shop. Again.

The red is a stack of paper waiting for her on the counter. She skims the text and snorts, then shoves the papers into the trash bin when she hears the door open.

“Beat me here again, boss,” Johnny says, and Dutch smiles at him, handing him the first cup of freshly-brewed coffee.

“That’s my job,” she says, and they settle into a companionable silence, readying the cafe for the first influx of customers.

*

Dutch is in the back when she hears a yelp, followed by a “god _damn_ it, Lucy!” A moment later, D’avin slinks into view, rubbing at a red patch on his forearm.

“Steamer get you again?” Dutch asks.

“Espresso tamp.” D’avin scowls at the burn, which is about two inches from yesterday’s fading blister. “Want to take over for me?”

“Mm, tempting,” Dutch says. “But I think you just need to spend more time getting on Lucy’s good side.”

“She has a good side?” D’avin ducks as Johnny comes up behind him, hand swatting at empty air.

“You two just don’t treat her right,” Johnny says. “Lucy’s never given me a bad pull.”

“Except that one time,” Dutch reminds him.

“ _You_ had damaged her threading. It doesn’t count,” Johnny says. He reaches past Dutch to grab a fresh carton of soy milk from the shelf. “Hey, if we’re all back here, who’s on register?”

“Shit,” says Dutch.

The cafe looks empty when Dutch sticks her head around the doorway, so she does a quick sweep of the tables, gathering up a few discarded coffee cups and napkins before heading back to the register. She’s just setting out a new stack of grande cups when someone clears their throat.

“I’ve been waiting to order for at least five minutes,” says Delle. “You really are a disgrace to the franchise.”

“Good morning, Delle.” Dutch pulls Delle’s usual venti cup from the stack. “What can I get you?”

“Aren’t you supposed to smile when you welcome customers?”

Dutch bares her teeth in a grin. “We got that almond milk you asked for last time.”

“I don’t drink almond milk,” says Delle.

Dutch silently counts to ten while Delle stares at the menu overhead.

“Do you have goat milk?” Delle asks, after a minute.

“No, we do not have goat milk,” Dutch says.

“Hmm.”

“Please don’t call Khlyen to complain. Again.”

“You should really be thanking me,” Delle says. “If I hadn’t called Khlyen, you wouldn’t have almond milk.”

“We didn’t _want_ almond milk.”

“Well, it’s not about what you want, is it?”

Dutch closes her eyes and counts to twenty. When she opens her eyes, Delle is tapping a perfectly-manicured finger on her absurdly expensive watch.

“Get me a half-caf macchiato with soy milk at 171 degrees and a quarter pump of cinnamon dolce syrup.”

Dutch writes the order down on the venti cup she’s holding and sets it down at the edge of the bar. She rings in the order and opens her mouth to tell Delle the total.

“Tall,” says Delle.

“Of course,” says Dutch, and repeats the process with a smaller cup.

“In my own mug,” says Delle, fishing a small, rose gold travel mug out of her purse, which looks barely large enough to have held it in the first place.

“That’s new,” says Dutch.

“A gift. From Khlyen.”

“Of course it is,” Dutch mutters. “I hope it’s lined with poison,” she adds, under her breath.

“What was that?” asks Delle.

“Nothing,” Dutch says, and scrawls _½ C M S ¼ CD_ on a sticky note and slaps it onto the side of Delle’s travel mug. “Johnny!” she yells, and shoves the mug into his hand as soon as he joins her behind the bar. “Your turn,” she says, and heads for the back.

“Is that Delle?” D’avin asks.

“Why don’t you go out there and see?” Dutch suggests.

“Yeah, no thanks. Are we gonna have to re-do all the purchase orders for the various milks again?”

“I don’t think so.” Dutch eyeballs the shelves but there’s nothing requiring her immediate attention. “Bellus already distributed new purchase forms to all the shops in the region, and I think she’ll back us on not adding goat milk to the menu even if Delle complains to Khlyen.”

“Goat milk,” says D’avin.

“Goat milk,” Dutch confirms.

“You know, no one ever asked for goat milk when I was bartending.”

“It was a dive bar. Of course no one wanted goat milk.”

“It wasn’t a dive bar,” D’avin argues, but it’s half-hearted at best. “The neighborhood just gentrified too fast for the owners to upgrade the place while still paying rent.”

“And yet somehow no one ever asked you for goat milk,” Dutch says.

“All the neighborhood hipsters were vegan.”

“Of course they were.” Dutch peers around the corner to see if Delle is still there, then saunters back over to the register. Johnny is examining Lucy with a pensive expression.

“I couldn’t get Delle’s soy milk the right temperature and she made me re-make her drink three times,” Johnny says.

“Only three?” Dutch asks. “I think she’s warming up to you, Johnny.”

Johnny rolls his eyes. “Anyway, I think I can get the steamer a little more precise, but it might involve some...upgrades. Of the not entirely corporate approved variety.”

Dutch shrugs. “Do it.”

“I’ll call Clara,” Johnny says, grinning. “She can have the parts here in an hour.”

The door opens, and suddenly they’re in the middle of a rush, a line of stay-at-home parents cluttering the space with strollers, then office workers taking a mid-morning break. D’avin fills a few cartons of coffee for people’s lunch meetings, and they have a small crisis when one of the office workers orders the last sugar cookie right before a toddler gets to the register and bursts into tears. D’avin comes to the rescue with a cake pop, the parents bundle their kids back into their strollers, and then there’s a brief lull, just enough time for Clara and Johnny to upgrade Lucy’s steamer before the local high school students settle in for the afternoon.

Khlyen shows up just as a small posse of teenage girls swarm the register, pooling handfuls of change and small bills onto the counter and trying to figure out how many seasonal holiday beverages they can order to share.

“I make an amazing decaf green tea latte,” D’avin tells one of the girls. She’s smiling at him and leaning forward to display her extremely underage cleavage until she processes what he’s saying and recoils, face falling into a grimace.

“Ew,” says one of the other girls. “I want a quad-shot peppermint mocha with extra whipped cream.”

“You really shouldn’t put that much sugar and caffeine in your bodies until you’re old enough to vote,” D’avin says, crossing his arms. At least three of the girls are staring at his biceps. “It’s bad for you.”

“I like being bad,” one of the girls tells him. D’avin blinks at her, and takes a step back.

“Um.”

“What’s your favorite winter mocha flavor?” asks one of the other girls.

“I don’t drink coffee,” D’avin tells her. One of the girls who’d been staring at his biceps looks disappointed.

Dutch takes D’avin’s elbow and steers him over to the bar, then takes over the register. Khlyen leans across the counter as soon as the girls are done placing their order. “Where did you find _him_?” Khlyen asks, tilting his chin at D’avin.

“He’s Johnny’s brother. The bar he was working with shut down. This is supposed to be temporary.”

“He...doesn’t drink coffee.”

“So you don’t have to worry about him drinking up all the merchandise,” Dutch says, rolling her eyes. 

Khlyen eyes D’avin speculatively. “He looks like he could help your cafe win this year’s corporate fitness incentive.”

“I don’t need _help_ ,” Dutch snaps.

“You lost to Fancy Lee last year,” Khlyen reminds her.

“I hate that guy,” Johnny says.

“Who’s Fancy Lee?” asks D’avin.

“Afternoon soy chai latte, long hair, never tips. He runs the Teavana across the street,” Dutch tells him.

“Oh, that asshole,” says D’avin. Johnny nods, and Dutch rolls her eyes.

“Whatever, we can wipe the floor with him.” She turns to Khlyen. “So. Fitness incentive?”

“Winning cafe gets an extra week of paid vacation days for all employees and a cash bonus. Where did you put the flyers I left you?”

“In the trash,” Dutch says. “Did you forget what happened last year?”

“Johnny’s broken leg?” Khlyen waves a hand dismissively. “He’s fine now, isn’t he?”

“He couldn’t work for a month!”

“Seriously, it was fine,” Johnny tries to interrupt.

“That’s why we’re not doing an obstacle course this year,” Khlyen says.

“I wouldn’t have broken my leg if Fancy Lee hadn’t cheated,” Johnny adds.

“So what _are_ we doing?” Dutch asks, and Khlyen leans in conspiratorially.

“CrossFit.”

Dutch recoils, Johnny frowns, and D’avin brightens.

“I love CrossFit!” D’avin says. “I’ve got CrossFit training tonight, as a matter of fact!”

“Of course you do,” Dutch and Khlyen say at the same time, and Dutch immediately looks horrified. Khlyen beams at her.

“You should come train with me!” D’avin says.

“That’s...an idea,” says Johnny. Khlyen’s smile widens.

*

They’ve been open for three hours already the next day when D’avin finally limps into the cafe. He staggers his way over to the counter, then slumps heavily in front of the register.

“You’re late,” says Dutch.

“Are you even _human_?” D’avin moans. “I’ve been doing CrossFit for _six years_ and I have _never_ seen anyone do that.”

Dutch shrugs. “Khlyen’s been running the corporate fitness incentives as long as I’ve known him. I like to win.”

Johnny pats D’avin on the arm on his way past. D’avin lets out a whimper. “Cheer up, big brother,” Johnny says. “We don’t have to beat her, just help her beat everyone else.”

“I don’t think I can move,” D’avin says.

The door opens, and Dutch nudges him. D’avin obligingly slides to the floor so he’s not blocking the register. “Good afternoon, Pree,” Dutch says.

Pree smiles at her, then glances down and raises an eyebrow. “Fitness incentive?”

“How’d you know?” Johnny asks.

“I hear things,” Pree says. “How’s Lucy today?”

“Better than ever,” Johnny says. “Clara came by yesterday. Too bad you missed her.”

“Oh, I’d hate to split your attention.” Pree leans across the bar. “So, are you going to concoct something special for me today?”

Johnny pulls a cup from the stack. “Any requests?”

“Just keep it sweet, sugar,” Pree says.

There’s a flurry of movement behind him, and when Dutch looks over the counter, an EMT is crouched over D’avin, checking his pulse.

“He’s fine,” Dutch says.

“Injured pride, at worst,” Johnny adds.

“I hate you both,” D’avin says, without opening his eyes.

“Sorry, professional instinct,” the EMT says. She shoves a curl of hair behind her ear and stands, waving an awkward hello. “I’m Pawter.”

D’avin cracks open one eye, then another, then hauls himself laboriously to his feet. “I’m D’avin. Would you like anything? Coffee, a scone? On the house.”

“Hey,” Dutch objects. “I’m running a business here.”

“You give Alvis free coffee and a muffin every day,” D’avin says.

“Alvis is a talented busker who brings in street traffic,” Dutch says. “And Pawter can afford a scone, she’s got a trust fund.”

Pawter stares at her. “How can you tell? I shop at Goodwill!”

Dutch glares at D’avin. “We never had hipsters before you started working here.” She scowls, looking back at Pawter. “We’re not getting goat milk.”

Pawter blinks. “I...didn’t ask for goat milk?”

“Good. Don’t.”

The door opens, and Delle saunters in, waving her rose gold travel mug. “Did I hear you’re getting goat milk?”

*

Dutch leaves Johnny and D’avin to close that night, settling on the stoop outside next to Alvis. She hands him a fresh cup of coffee, the last brew of the day, and he drapes half of his blanket over her shoulders.

“Long day?” Alvis asks.

“Generally speaking,” Dutch says. “How were the tips?”

“Awful. Yours?”

“I think everyone is taking tipping advice from Fancy Lee,” Dutch says, and Alvis shakes his head sadly.

“Good luck taking him down in this year’s fitness incentive,” he says. “Do you need a theme song? Power ballad?”

Dutch laughs, leaning against him. “I think we’ll be all right,” she says. Behind them, Johnny and D’avin turn off the cafe lights, darkness settling over them with the evening chill.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, it’s a Starbucks. No, I know nothing about actually working in a coffee shop. Goat milk is really good in coffee, though. Starbucks should get on that.


End file.
